


King and Lionheart

by bearymon



Category: Hollow Crown (2012), Snow White and the Huntsman (2012)
Genre: Failed attempt at Shakespearean dialogue, M/M, Mpreg, cross-over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 17:36:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearymon/pseuds/bearymon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The looming threat of war takes it toll on Hal and Eric. Decisions are made and prices are paid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	King and Lionheart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Highkiller777](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Highkiller777/gifts), [shaking_indigo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaking_indigo/gifts).



> So I accidentally wrote some Halric despite not knowing anything about SWATH and The Hollow Crown but I regret nothing. How do you write in Old English. I can’t! This has been bugging me for a while now and it’s nice that I finally managed to finish it. Thank you too highkiller777, fulltaildiva-loki and my lovely anon for your lovely ficlets. It’s time I wrote for you guys. :)

The sun has barely risen and the terrain is bathed in the light of the early morn. For a while it is quiet. The silence is then broken by the thunder of hooves and the occasional neighing of horses.

Henry gives his horse a kick, urging his steed to go faster. The beast whinnies in protest and receives another hit to the side from its rider. The King of England rides on through the plains of his motherland, hands tight upon the reins. He is accompanied by a small band of men – most from his private guard.

“Sire! A messenger!” Someone calls out and points somewhere in the horizon. True enough the colours of their nation peeks from a hillside carried by a man on horseback.

“Halt!” England’s sovereign calls out, pulling on his stallion’s bridle. The emissary comes up to them and immediately gets down from his steed to fall on one knee at the sight of his king.

“My liege!”

“What news dost thou bring messenger?”  

“I come with great news, my liege! The campaign was a success. We have driven back France’s army. Those who have not been felled by our men have been taken as prisoners.”

The messenger looks at him expectantly, awaiting his reply. Despite the jovial announcement, Henry gives no shout of triumph nor speaks with joy for their victory, his face unreadable.

“And what of Eric? How does the King Consort fare? Is he well?” His voice remains calm and does not hint to the emotions threatening to break out of his well composed mask.

_Concern. Longing. Frustration. Anger. Mostly anger and a bit of relief._

_

He opens his eyes and winces at the sudden brightness. The familiar view of the royal bedchamber comes into focus. The curtains have been drawn up and the sun is high. It is probably noon.

The last thing he remembers is seeing his advisers in court. They were discussing strategies and preemptive measures to be taken in the course of the looming war with their French neighbors  He was in the middle of an argument with one of them when a dizzy spell had hit him. His vision spun before darkness enveloped him completely.

Henry sits himself up and gives out a groan as the beginning of a headache hits him. He brings a hand upon his temple in a feeble attempt to rid himself of the discomfort. He is not quite sure what he prefers at the moment, the feeling of his head being split open or the need to spill the contents of his stomach every now and then.

He fears that he has been plagued by some illness – has been plagued for quite some days now. The stress from the affairs of the state and the pressure brought about by the threat of another war are probably the ones to blame for this. His hand moves from his forehead to his bronze curls to give them a small tug out of sheer frustration. He is about to get up when a familiar gruff voice stops him. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Eric closes the door behind him and stands at the doorway of their chambers, arms crossed and brows furrowed. The time Eric spent as captain of his private guard comes to memory. That was seasons ago; and just as Prince Hal was crowned as King Henry V, Sir Eric “Lionheart”, the man who used to be simply known as The Huntsman, is also bestowed the title of King Consort. 

Henry chooses to ignore his spouse and the heated glare he receives from him. He makes his way to the dresser to look for suitable garments to wear.

“You do know that you won’t be able to leave this room under my watch?” Eric continues, watching his husband sift through his clothes. It sounded more of a statement rather than a question.

This time Henry turns his head to him and heartily returns the glare. “Eric, I have no time for this nonsense. It is important that I speak with the war council today.” He hopes that the man would stop worrying and let him be. There are more pressing matters at hand than his health.

“This is not the first time you’ve fainted. You’ve been feeling unwell for days and yet you have not sought the advice of a physician. You stay here and rest.” Eric growled, his patience wearing thin from Henry’s behavior. He wasn’t exactly known for patience to begin with. 

“It is but fatigue!” The king countered, completely exasperated. “France’s army would be upon us in a few days time and it is my duty as king to make sure that our men are prepared. It is I and no one else that will lead them to battle.”

“And how will my king defeat the French exactly? Will he drive them away with his vomit? Aye, that is a sight to behold. One can imagine them already fleeing and running for their lives when they see you throw up what you’ve had for breakfast.”  The brunette snorted and rolled his eyes. A smirk forming on his face at his husband’s already reddening cheeks.

“Do not mock me.” Henry says in the low tone he reserves for when he is on the brink of losing his temper. He bites back a wince as the throbbing in his head worsens along with his mood.

The King Consort however has plans to be a complete arse today and continues on making sarcastic quips. “Lo and behold, The King of England! Retreat or lest we be showered upon thine sick! “ Eric says in an unusual accented voice in an attempt to make an impression of a French soldier.

“You…I…you insufferable bastard!” Henry growled, shaking in anger. He has already dressed himself in a simple suit and was now striding towards the source of his ire.

“Surely you jest. We both know you play the role of insufferable bastard better than I do. The title suits you quite fittingly,  _Hal_.” Eric hissed. He has no plans to move from the door and let Hal pass anytime soon.

The younger man steps back as if burned by the words uttered by the other. To the surprise of both, Hal fails to deliver a reply and instead lashes out at Eric with a snarl, hitting the broad chest with his closed fists before breaking down into sobs. That was quite a short-lived argument.

Eric stiffens at the contact, still bewildered at the sudden turn of events. He sighs and relaxes, taking Hal into his arms and proceeds to lead his still distraught lover back to bed. Hal’s feet are freed from his boots and his jacket along with other unnecessary articles of clothing are removed with Eric’s help, to be placed on top of one of the bedside tables.

The bed dips as the warrior joins his king in bed, embracing him once again. The sobs slowly die down into sniffles and then the sniffles are gone as well.

Hal remembers sweet words and apologies whispered to his ears, Eric’s warm albeit callous hand caressing his hair and the soft kisses on his forehead before he succumbs to sleep.

_

Henry wakes up in the early hours of the morrow and finds that Eric has already departed from their bedchamber. Disappointment crawls into his gut at the absence of his husband. Yesterday’s fight comes to his mind and he rolls over to bury his face in one of the pillows. “Mature behaviour becoming of the King of England.” He mutters and sighs.

Astonishingly he has yet to get the urge to rid his stomach of its contents. Although a bit curious, he does not complain about it. He wonders if he truly does suffer from an ailment and he thinks about Eric’s words. He knows that the brunette was right. He was in no shape to lead his army to a war of all things.

Eric’s advice is heeded and Henry calls for the royal physician. What they discover however leaves the doctor as shocked as his king.

Henry finds himself back in his chamber later that day, pacing back and forth, the handsome face set in a frown. He has seen no sign of Eric throughout the day. He knows he shouldn’t worry too much. His husband had the habit of taking trips out into the woods when they get into an argument. Once, he did not return for weeks and Henry had feared he would not return to him.

This time it is different. He needs Eric now. He needs to talk to him and notify him of the current situation. A hand subconsciously falls on his still flat abdomen. The idea of becoming a parent and having an heir had never been thought of and now that it was happening it all felt surreal. He was carrying a babe, the heir to the throne but most importantly he was carrying Eric’s child.

_

Eric does not return the next day but Henry knows he can’t disregard his responsibilities as the reigning sovereign. 

The council is called to the throne room, their king already seated and waiting upon their arrival. There are members missing and this does not go unnoticed by Henry.

“The others are coming, yes?” He asks his advisers. The confusion in their faces unnerves him. He looks from one man to another and finds no answers there. His men whisper among themselves and he feels offended for being left out in the dark. 

“Pray tell dear sirs, where are the others?” He asks, hoping he would get answers.

The gathered men looked hesitant but they answered nonetheless. “Sirs Walter, Joseph and Edmund had left with the army two nights ago upon thine orders, my Liege. King Eric is leading them South where there are reports of France sending an army of a little over a thousand men.” 

Clearly, that was not the answer he was looking for. He promptly dismisses his advisers with a wave of his hand. A deep breath is taken in a desperate attempt to calm him, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He wants nothing more than to cry out in frustration. He longs for the feel of the bow and arrow in his hands, something that can help him release the barely kept rage. Another shuddering breath is taken.

He goes out of the throne room in hopes that a little archery would clear his head. It didn’t exactly do much but make his blood boil all the more. How can Eric be so rash? Leaving for war without informing him –  _without saying goodbye_?  That arrogant fool!

Blue-green eyes focus intently on the target and in his head he pictures Eric in place of it. The arrow is released and hits the target dead on the middle. A satisfied smile plays on Henry’s lips. 

It is decided. He will set out with a few men before dawn.

_

The camp comes into view within an hour of travel. Someone announces their arrival and what men are assembled in front of the settlement pay respects to him with bows and cheers – the marks of battle apparent from their bruised and wounded bodies. He answers them with a curt nod. Henry dismounts his steed and as his boots touch the soil a wave of a fatigue hits him. He is reminded of his condition and the growing life he now holds responsibility for. Maybe this idea wasn’t thought through.

He allows one of his men to take his horse from him and once his vision steadied the young king walked further into the camp in hopes of finding Eric and giving the man a piece of his mind.

There was something peculiar about his men. They were pictures of ones who have faced defeat in the hands of their conquerors rather than the victors they truly were. It fills Henry with unease. Did something happen? Where was Eric? The messenger from earlier that day failed to give a report on the condition and whereabouts of his husband. Anxiety coils in the pits of his stomach. The anger by now has been long forgotten.

Finally, a familiar face appears. Sir Walter comes out from one of the larger tents and jogs to his side. “My king.” The knight greets him eyes downcast.

Henry finds his voice and asks the very thing that has been bothering him for the past days. “Where is he?” He watches his adviser struggle with words until a howl resounds throughout the camp. The coil tightens. He knows that voice all too well.

The king practically sprints from the source, another large tent. The smell of blood and antiseptic makes his stomach curl. It is the stench of death that lies heavy upon the air that makes him double over and retch. Sir Walter, who has followed after him, attends to him and rubs his back with his good arm – the other one covered in bandages. He gives a few more dry heaves before he slowly stands up with the knight’s aid.

The flap is lifted and a few men, his other two advisers and what he assumes to be doctors, emerge from the tent, their faces grim. He cuts them off before they are able to acknowledge his presence. “Where is he?” The desperation is audible in his voice. “Is he…?” - _dead?_

Sir Joseph lifts the flap once again and gestures inside. Without a second’s hesitation, Henry goes inside and is met with the view of the wounded and the dead, their voices making up a cacophony of groans and moans of pain. The wave of nausea comes back with a vengeance and a hand flies to his mouth. Henry swallows and prays that Eric would be in perfectly good health.

He spots Eric at the far end lying on a cot, silent and still. A breath hitches in his throat for a moment, fearing for the worst. “Eric?”

The fallen warrior is covered in bruises and cuts, his torso heavily bandaged due to a deep gash upon his chest, a stump remains from what used to be his left arm. Hearing Henry, Eric opens his eyes as far as he could and drinks in the sight of his King and lover. “Hal.”

Hal crouches beside his consort and takes the man’s remaining hand to his own. The mask has long been shattered by now and the tears fall freely from his face. “You’re a bloody idiot. Do you know that? A complete arse.” He forces a smile in hopes of hearing Eric’s deep laughter. A weak chuckle spills from the man’s lips before sputtering off into a coughing fit; specks of crimson staining his war-weary clothing.

“You shouldn’t have left. You should have told me.  _Why? Why must you leave me?_ ” Hal’s voice breaks and a sob escapes him.

“You are more important. It is and always will be my duty to protect you.” Eric’s replies in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

“We’ll make it through. You’ll get better.” A hopeful smile is forced from the king’s tear-stained face.  Maybe stating the words would make them carry more truth than the false promises they harbor.

Eric merely shakes his head and Hal let’s out another anguished cry, “No! I shant let it! You can’t leave my side. I need you. We need you.” vehemently shaking his own head in disapproval. It pains Hal to watch the man he has grown to love give up on living so easily but maybe he knows he is at his limit. They both know. Hal just chooses to deny it.

Confusion springs from Eric’s face and Hal brings his lover’s hand on top of his stomach where their child grows. “You are to be a father.” Another strained smile appears on the broken king’s face and understanding dawns on his husband.

“I am?”

“Aye.”

With the little strength left in his mortal body, Eric takes Hal’s hands and holds them tight. For a moment, the man looks as though he wishes to say something but then decides on giving Hal one last smile and an unspoken ‘I love you.’

It is ‘Goodbye’, that Hal sees in that one last gesture of affection, the light dying from those eyes that were once filled with passion. Eric’s grip slackens and his eyelids flutter shut with finality. His breaths come slow before a final one is taken and he is still and silent once again just as Hal had seen him moments before.

‘Until we meet again, Hal.’  
   
—


End file.
